Aurora’s second morning at the strawberry farm began before dawn.

The alarm blared at five-thirty, wrenching her out of a restless sleep. She groaned, fumbling for the button. The air in the tiny rented flat was damp and stale—so different from the delicate fragrance of perfume and the endless space of her old suite. Still, she forced herself upright.

You wanted this, she whispered to the reflection in the cracked mirror. You need this.

By six, she was on the bus, clutching a paper cup of cheap, watery coffee. The city receded behind her, the sky bleeding with strokes of gold as the sun rose. For the first time in weeks, Aurora felt something other than dread. A flicker of anticipation stirred in her chest.

At the farm, Ethan was already there. His shirt sleeves rolled up, hair damp with morning dew, he moved with quiet authority—greeting workers, checking irrigation lines, inspecting crates. There was nothing flashy about him, but his presence filled the space.

When his eyes found her, a faint smile tugged at his lips.
“You came back.”

“Of course,” Aurora shot back, brushing dust from her jeans. “What did you expect? That I’d cry and run back to a penthouse I don’t even have anymore?”

Ethan chuckled softly. “No. I thought you’d prove me right.”

She raised a brow. “Right about what?”

“That you don’t give up so easily.”

The words lodged in her chest, warm and disarming. Aurora hated how easily he could pierce the wall of ice she’d so carefully built.

He assigned her to the greenhouse, where rows of young strawberry plants stretched beneath glass. The air smelled of damp earth and green leaves.

“Today,” Ethan said, handing her gloves, “you’ll learn to transplant seedlings. They’re delicate. Too much force, and they break. Too little, and they won’t root.”

Aurora tilted her chin. “Sounds like a metaphor you rehearsed.”

“Maybe,” he said with a grin.

She rolled her eyes but pulled the gloves on. Her first attempt snapped the fragile stem. The seedling drooped lifelessly.

One of the workers, Marla, clucked her tongue. “If the city princess keeps this up, half the crop will be dead.”

Aurora flushed hot with shame. She wanted to retort, but Ethan spoke first.

“Marla,” he said calmly, “you broke more than a few your first month too.”

Marla muttered something and turned away. Aurora exhaled, torn between annoyance and reluctant gratitude.

“I don’t need you defending me,” she mumbled.

“I’m not,” Ethan said. “I’m reminding you that failure once doesn’t make you worthless. Try again.”

His steady voice anchored her. Aurora slowed her movements, gentler this time. And when the seedling stood upright in the soil, still alive, she allowed herself the smallest smile.

“See?” Ethan’s voice was warm. “You’re not useless.”

Hour after hour, she worked. Her back ached, her fingers cramped, but tray by tray she improved. Marla’s silence eventually softened into something like approval; she even passed Aurora a water bottle without comment.

By noon, Aurora collapsed under the shade of a tree, unwrapping her meager lunch—two slices of bread with peanut butter. It was a pitiful downgrade from the multi-course meals she once commanded.

Yet hunger made the simple food taste better than she expected. She had barely taken a bite when a shadow fell over her.

Ethan dropped down beside her, holding out a plastic container. “Trade?”

Suspicion narrowed her eyes. “What’s in it?”

“Strawberries. Picked fresh this morning.”

Her breath caught. He lifted the lid to reveal the gleaming red fruit, still kissed with dew.

Memory slammed into her—the image of a boy shyly offering her half a box of strawberries in the schoolyard. She had scoffed back then, too proud to see the sweetness of the gesture. Now, the recollection stung, and her throat tightened.

“You’re going to make me cry over fruit?” she muttered, taking one.

“If anything could, it’d be strawberries,” Ethan teased.

She bit into it. The flavor burst across her tongue—sweet, tart, alive. For a moment, everything else disappeared: the scandal, Damien’s cold dismissal, the ruins of her family name. All that existed was this simple, honest taste, and the man who had placed it in her hand.

The afternoon was grueling. She lifted crates, sorted fruit, carried loads until her arms trembled. Dirt smeared her face, her nails broke, sweat clung to her skin. And yet, every time she faltered, Ethan’s voice steadied her.

“You’re stronger than you think.”

“Quitting now would be a waste.”

Piece by piece, she started to believe him.

By sunset, Aurora stood in the middle of the fields. The horizon glowed crimson, the scent of ripe fruit thick in the air. Fireflies began to rise with the dusk. No chandeliers, no glittering gowns—yet the beauty of it stole her breath.

Before she left, Ethan walked her to the bus stop. The evening breeze carried the earthy fragrance of the day’s labor.

“You did well today,” he said.

Aurora snorted. “If ‘well’ means clumsy, filthy, and nearly breaking my back, then yes.”

He smiled, quiet and sure. “Better than most on their second day.”

Silence stretched between them. His gaze was steady, gentle. It unnerved her, so she looked away. “Don’t get used to this. I’m not staying forever.”

“I know,” he said simply.

Her head snapped back. “You know?”

“I know you’ll leave when you’re ready,” Ethan replied. “But until then… this place can be yours too.”

The words unraveled something inside her. She bit back a reply, climbing the bus quickly before he could see the heat rising to her cheeks.

Through the window, she saw him still standing there, framed by the last streaks of sunset—solid, unwavering.

For the first time in months, Aurora felt something stir beyond despair. Something dangerous.

Hope.